


his last hope

by roseprice612



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - World War II, Buddhism, World War II, kind of modern actually, like 1920-30s, maglor finds buddhism and is like ????
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-20 04:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10655130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseprice612/pseuds/roseprice612
Summary: maglor has lived through all the history of the world, and just when he decides his wandering is not worth it, he finds a monastery in the jungles of Nepal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow i know i just like post stuff and then don't finish it but i promise i'm working on it okay. i've just been thinking about this one thing for very long and i wanted to write it down
> 
>  
> 
> \-- for people triggered by discussions about religion, s'all good. just chill
> 
> \--- also psa if i've left out or gotten stuff wrong please respectfully let me know. i am new to buddhism and there are many things i probably won't even touch on

It had been years of wandering.

Maglor had lost track of time. One moment he was singing along the shores of the beaches of Arda, the next he was traveling the world. He didn't know what made him want to travel. Maybe it was the restlessness in his veins, the unhappiness that gripped him by the bones and shook him until all he could do was run.

He ran a lot. He'd run when his brother threw himself into a volcano. He ran when he was found by a small troop of Valinorean soldiers. He ran especially when he ended up in Imladris, unable to face his son for more than a few days. At this point, he enjoyed running.

The world had changed when he did not. The land changed, mountains rose and fell, ocean shaped peninsulas and continents that were not there before. He lived on when humans dominated the world and all his kind had left. He remembered all the history of the old world, and from it, he learned how the humans thought and what they would do next.

The humans turned to farms. They had always farmed, he remembered. But now they farmed a lot. They were clever creatures. They farmed in villages and somehow they began to worship their deities and gods. And then there was the only God, which Maglor could not argue with but also could not agree with. They had the story all wrong.

He remembered the Industrial Revolution. That was a tough time. He hid on the streets as a beggar, quietly living while the rest worked. Machines became more advanced. Electricity thrived. Farms got smaller and the farming population all but disappeared. The countries that he wandered fought with each other about money and colonies. He saw no need for it.

Then came the nineteenth century. The Great War caused him more pain than the rest and he was forced into the conflict. He did not know what side he fought for. But he knew they called themselves Englishmen, and that they thought themselves to be the best. They were not the best.

The place they called Europe was no longer safe for him. Maglor fled to the east, into Russia, and suddenly found himself in the midst of yet another pointless revolution. This turned into a continent-wide conflict, and he hid as a woman to avoid being drafted again. In this free time he found music again, and with a heavy heart, he remembered his prized harp that had worn away many years ago. He bought a gramophone with the money he'd earned over the years and kept it with him at all times. This, he promised himself, he'd keep safe.

The world turned red. He turned to the east again, curious whether the conditions were better or worse than where he dwelled. After unsuccessfully gaining any knowledge about the condition of Asia, he decided to do what he did best and run. He packed his gramophone and his ancient coins and fled St Petersburg.

The east was not better, nor was it worse. He passed through Uzbekistan, a terrible place, and India, poor and struggling to keep its economy, and finally headed into Nepal. By this time, Maglor was more ragged and starving than he'd been in a long, long time.

One day, he woke in a forest not knowing where he was. The feeling in his chest was worse than it had ever been. He was hungry, he was angry, it was hard to breathe and his body creaked like an old harp. He was barely able to sling his bag over his shoulder and step through the trees. He did not know how he ended up where he was. But it was warm and colorful birds screamed above him. His head pounded.

Surprisingly, he found a building in the forest. It was made entirely of stone on the outside, covered in vines. At first, he thought it was abandoned, but then he caught sight of people moving within. His feet quickened. Maybe they had food. And water. He was so thirsty.

The people all looked the same. They had shaved heads and wore orange and yellow robes. As he got closer, he spotted large statues of something he remembered from long ago. It was a deity. Or a God. They called him Buddha.

"Hey-" He called, reaching out his arm to wave to one of them. They all past him as if he did not exist. So he stepped into the building. "Hello? Hello?" He shouted again, wanting- _needing_ their attention. "Please, help me. I'm very hungry. I can pay. Please."

For a long moment, he stood there. Frustrated and terrified, he dropped his bag and fell to the wooden floor. He heaved breaths and tried to just breathe, calm himself down, but he was just so _hungry_ , and his throat hurt with every breath. His body tried to sob but there were no tears left to shed.

Finally, a hand gripped his shoulder. Slowly he looked behind and found one of the usual bald-headed, orange-robed men. He had thin eyes and a kind face, and he seemed past the age of sixty. Wordlessly he brought Maglor to his feet and picked up his bag for him. Then he turned and walked down a dim hall.

"Wait." Maglor breathed, standing shakily and stumbling after him. "Who are you? Where am I right now? Do you have any food? Food? I'm starving, I-"

The man turned his head and silenced him with one smile. His eyes smiled, too. But he was silent, and he turned back to the stones in front of him.

They stopped at a large room on the second floor of the temple. There was only one person inside, and he was making tea at a worn wooden table. He sat on a red mat, like the ones Maglor had seen in India. The silent man placed his bag on the floor by the entrance and turned and left.

"Hello?" Maglor gasped. His voice was so dry and dead that he had to put in a lot of effort to speak only a little. "Water? Food? I'm hungry, please-"

"Sit." The man said. Wait- not man. This was a woman. She pointed to the mat on the other side of the table and sat back on her own, holding her tea between her hands but not drinking it.

He was surprised she had spoken, but sat anyway and reached for the teacup as she poured it. It was steaming hot but he drank it in one gulp, setting it down and reveling in the burn that caressed his throat.

"Where am I?" He said after a long moment. "What is this place? Who are you?"

She took a sip of her tea and placed it back on the table. Her movements were very slow, but she had to be only- forty, maybe? Probably her thirties. She poured Maglor another cup of tea and he, again, drank it quickly.

"This is a monastery." Her voice was smooth and calming. "We are in Nepal, unless borders have changed again." There was an accent there, too, but one he couldn't place. "I am one of the only speaking monks in this establishment. Many took a vow of silence, like Arjuna. He let you in here." She took another long taste of tea and swallowed. Everything she did was measured, precise, and Maglor found himself entranced. She poured him more tea. This time, he drank it a bit slower, in three sips, and tasted the herbs that he did not before.

"What's your name?" He questioned. She poured him another cup of tea, then finished and refilled hers. He drank it as she did.

"Namrata." She sent a friendly smile. "What is yours, and what is your purpose here?"

He did not know why, but he felt a sudden urge to answer truthfully. To not conceal anything. "Which name do you want?"

She cocked her head to the side. "The name you were born with."

His head dropped to the tea in front of him. He took a long sip. "It is Makalaurë." Another sip. "I have no purpose on his earth but to wander."

"Hm." Namrata took a drink of tea and smiled lightly. "It seems you have simply lost your purpose."

Maglor finished his tea once again and tried harder to even his breathing. Still, he was anxious, his heart hammering like a battle snare in his ribs. "No. I finished my purpose long ago and now I wander."

"Tell me what your purpose was."

He found himself again not able to lie. She had such a relaxed vibe. "I made an Oath. To my father. I had to return something of his that had been stolen, and..." He swallowed sticky spit and closed his eyes. "The Oath proved false. I wander to grieve for all that I have done wrong." He unfurled his right hand on the low table, revealing the blackened burn that still resided there. He had lost all feeling in that hand, and never would it return.

"Tell me how it proved false." She studied his hand and his eyes and his soul. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I-?" His head lifted and he narrowed his eyes. "I don't know. I just... wandered. And now I'm here."

"Why did your Oath prove false?" She folded her hands around her teacup. Her eyes were calculating his every move. She reminded Maglor of his older brother, so focused.

"Because of my wrongs." He spoke as if he was hypnotized, and quickly he closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, Namrata was filling his teacup. "My father- You see, my father made these gems, three of them. They were stolen from him. But they were his greatest work, and he treasured them above all else, and so my brothers and I set off to reclaim them." He looked down. "We were wrong in coveting them. We killed many, and all of my brothers but one were killed off. My father died too, but the Oath did not die with him and we were cursed to reclaim his gems." She leaned forward, interested, and Maglor shied away. "In the end, they burned me. And my brother. He killed himself from grief."

"I'm sorry." Namrata lowered her head and muttered something to herself, then looked back up and met Maglor's eyes. "You are an old soul. I can see it in your eyes."

He stared blankly, still giving away more about him. Never in all his years wandering had he spoken so much truth about himself. "I am the oldest living being on this earth."

A smile rose on her face, and she lifted her eyebrows in good humor. "What makes you think that?"

Maglor leaned his forearms on the table and thought of an answer. "I remember your kind rising and mine leaving this place."

"And what race is that?"

"You are a human, aren't you?" He searched her eyes now, his gaze flicking to her rounded ears and stature. She nodded humorlessly. "I am the last of the Ñoldor." He lifted his shaggy hair from his ears, revealing the pointed tips and scars along his jaw. "I am over twenty-thousand years old."

Namrata laughed out loud at this. But it was not a mocking laugh. She _believed_ him. She saw his ears and his eyes and believed him. "I have one question."

Maglor raised his eyebrows for her to continue.

"Did you know him?" Her head turned to stare at the massive Buddha statue at the entrance. He smiled peacefully and Maglor searched his memory. He had met many famous people over the years. Hundreds. He knew Jesus for a few years. Maybe he had known Buddha.

Somehow, vaguely, a man came to mind; pure and happy and possibly the most compassionate man Maglor had ever met. "His name. What was his name? His birth name?"

"Siddharth-"

"Siddhartha Gautama." He finished. "Yes. Yes. I had known him. He tried to help me." He chuckled as another thought burst in his mind. "I remember his name because in my own native language I would have pronounced it _Sithartha_ , and I found not stop calling him that. He found it very funny."

Namrata was amazed. "You really knew him."

Maglor looked down and felt some energy drain from his body. If he was weak when he walked into this place, he did not think he could even stand at that point. "I knew many people." He took a long sip of tea and angled his eyes to look up at her. "Thank you. For the tea. I can pay, I have money..."

"No need." She saw the tiredness on his face and stood, refilling his cup one last time. "There is a futon in the next room over if you need it." She reached out to help him stand, but he tensed and flinched away. "Do you want help walking?"

"No." He said adamantly. "I do not like to be touched." And he lifted himself to his feet, though shakily, and stepped to the archway of the open room. All the windows had no glass and brought radiant sunlight in streaking beams. It woke him up just a bit. "However, I do not think I have the capacity to lift my bag. If you would have the compassion to give me a hand, I would be eternally grateful..."

Namrata did not blink twice before lifting his canvas bag in her arms and showing him down the hall only a bit. Maglor's left hand trailed the wood carefully, balancing on trembling legs. "What is in this bag?"

"Only the things precious enough to keep." He answered and stopped momentarily at the door. It was a worn wooden door, like every other one on the floor, and as Namrata pushed it open she looked him over.

"You walk with a limp," She observed, though kindly. "Do you need a cane to walk? It would be no trouble to get one-"

"I do not need a cane." He snapped, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. It is just... to need a cane would be to admit defeat. And in this life I have not been defeated."

Namrata nodded simply and placed the bag at the foot of the bed, on the floor. There was one blanket on the futon and a small desk next to it with a wicker chair. "I hope it is to your liking. We do not own much." Maglor dropped down onto the bed and breathed heavily. "We meditate at night, after we eat, and in the morning before we eat. You are welcome to join us." She walked to the door and paused. Almost mindlessly, she whispered, "I will bring you something to eat, for later."

The door shut behind her with a clang. Maglor flopped down in the bed and closed his eyes. Exhaustion overcame him and he fell into an endless pit of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chappa
> 
> maglor argues, argues some more, and doesnt really want to shave his head

When he woke again it was dark. For how long exactly he had been asleep he didn't know, but his bones creaked as he sat up. On the desk next to him was a ceramic plate of dark bread and a whole mango. It was green and orange and ripe when he picked it up. Hunger overcame him and he immediately tore into the food without a second thought.

A knock on his door brought his attention away from his plate. He chewed the bit of bread in his mouth (he had long since devoured the mango) and swallowed, moving his legs to the side of the bed. "Who is it?"

For a moment he forgot where he was, and when the voice answered, "Namrata," he had to think for a moment. But he stood, on shaky knees nonetheless, and walked to the door. He scowled at the cane that had been leaned up against the wall.

The door opened with a growl and Maglor stood aside to let the woman in. She muttered a "Good evening, Makalaurë," and she held a book, an old book with yellowed pages and a gold print font on the front with letters he couldn't read. On second thought, he thought he _could_ read them at some point, but his memory was not the greatest and he doubted he knew what any of it meant.

Namrata sat on the wicker chair and placed the book on the desk, next to his ravaged food. A smile widened on her lips. "I see you found the food I left out."

Maglor sat on the bed and looked at the plate, unsure if it was rude to continue eating. "Yes. Thank you." And he looked at the book again, and to Namrata's face. "In the nicest way possible, why are you here?"

She laughed and looked at her lap. Her tanned hands folded in her lap. "I have spoken to the head monk about your situation, and he has spoken to the Gods. I have come with an offer."

"An offer?" Maglor crossed his legs on the bed and leaned his elbows on his knees.

"Yes." She placed a hand on the book and met his eyes. "This is the Tripitaka, our main holy book, and teachings. I come to ask if you would like to become a monk."

This was not at all what he was expecting. For a second he thought it must be a joke, and let out a puff of a laugh. But Namrata's face did not change, and so he cocked his head to the side and considered it for a moment. "Why is it that you ask me this?"

"I see the anger in you." She met his eyes with such a powerful nature that he had to look away. "An anger this great is dangerous for one like you. You have suffered, I can see, and you keep that suffering within you like a weapon."

Maglor laughed now in bitter hatred. "And what do you suppose the alternative is? I have seen worse than you can imagine, I have lived through death and life and all the torture upon the world. Hiding away in a monastery and praying for things to get better is no way to spend my time."

Namrata did not waver. "I hear your point. I was like you once. You think this would be pointless. But we do not simply pray for things to get better." She pulled her legs up to her chest and placed her chin on her knees, a strangely juvenile position. "We heal ourselves from the pain we have faced, equip ourselves to deal with the pain we will have to face again, and then we teach others to do the same."

Maglor rubbed his face in his hands. "I do not think you comprehend the troubles that I have gone through."

"It does not matter."

"Does not-!" Maglor sat up with a jolt and turned on her with a fire in her eyes. "Do not tell _me_ it does not matter! I have killed and burned all for the sake of my father's anger! I wander _because_ it all mattered! Saying that it does not matter is like- is like saying the lives of my family did not matter!"

Namrata appeared only mildly surprised. "You applied my words to the wrong detail. I do not say your family's lives did not matter, I say that the amount of pain you have faced does not matter in becoming a monk. It is open to anyone and you, in particular, have captured our attention."

Maglor calmed only marginally. He couldn't argue with this woman. Her head was too clear and her thoughts were too organized. With defeat, he sunk against the wooden wall and closed his eyes. "Fine. What have I really got to lose?"

From then on Maglor was in the constant company of other monks, whether they be under a vow of silence or not. He woke in the mornings, meditated for hours, ate with the others and then followed Namrata in her daily practice. He asked questions only when needed and spoke only when spoken to. He ate dinner with the others and meditated with the others, and slept for not a long enough time and woke and repeated it all over again. The repetition was nice. Organized. His life did not often have that.

It must've been months that he repeated this cycle. He did not care about anything except things in his living moment. This mindset had to have been from Namrata. She told him not to worry about the future or the past. It helped with the guilt and the pain. He still had his wounds, old or new, but he did not have to hate them.

He did not know what the world outside the monastery was like anymore. He wore the _uttarasanga_ over one shoulder, leaving his right arm and burned hand open for all to see, and the _antaravasaka_ underneath, all a saffron orange like the other monks. There was one thing different about him than the others.

"Why do you not cut your hair?" Namrata asked one day, during a walk through the forest. It was supposed to be a practice of mindfulness, she said.

Maglor did not have to think about this question for long. "Because everyone would see my ears."

Namrata nodded in acknowledgment and stepped over a bent root. "You allow all to see your hand and the scars on your face a chest. How would this differ?"

His hand unintentionally drifted to his sensitive ears. "I don't know. It shows I am a different species altogether."

"Think about it." She mused and continued on. "In our monastery, we do not require you to shave your head, though all our monks living here now have shaved heads and believe that one should shave their head if they are becoming a monk."

Maglor did think about this. Almost subconsciously he wondered what his brothers would think about him shaving his head. He had always treasured his hair (though not as much as his cousin Findekáno), and kept it clean and braided delicately. But now... now it hung sadly by his face, cut to his collarbone and lank and messy. He wasn't sure if he cared about getting rid of it altogether.

It was that night that he decided to play his gramophone. It was old and worn and simple, the horn a dulled bronze and the box a smooth oak. He had only one record because it was the only significant one to him. It was Beethoven's symphony number 9 in D minor. He had helped Beethoven create that piece. He remembered the composer coming and knocking on his door late at night, asking for help. He'd stayed up all night writing it with him.

The sound of the music reverberated through the room like the cry of a long lost friend, and Maglor found himself playing an imaginary violin along with it, humming the tune and rolling his head side to side. It was all he needed to feel at home.

It was not long before there was a knock at the door. Maglor did not even stop the record before swinging open the door, a content smile on his face and pureness in his eyes. It was Namrata. There was trouble in her expression and she shut the door behind her.

"Makalaurë," She greeted, her tongue used to his foreign name by now, "You cannot be playing that."

He looked to his gramophone and carefully raised the needle and placed to the side. "Why?"

"I have been teaching you are sacred laws for months now. We are not allowed to own luxury items. They distract and raise envy in others." She crossed her hands in front of her. "I have told you this."

"Music surely cannot be a luxury." He cocked his head to the side and sat on the edge of his bed. "Music surrounds us. Music is within us. The day we call it a luxury is the day we place music outside our ability to recognize it."

Namrata laughed and lightened up a bit. "You make a good argument, but you cannot play it so loud. The head monk with hear you and he will not hesitate to restrict you from becoming one of us."

Maglor thought about this for a long minute. Without a word he stood, went to his canvas bag ruffled at the end of his bed, and retrieved the knife from the inner pocket. Then he handed it to Namrata with a serious look on his face. "Shave my head then. Prove I can become a monk."

And so she shaved his head. Only a few times she clipped skin and only a few times Maglor regretted his decision. Regret is for the past, he told himself. And the past does not matter in the present.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have a summary for this one. Maglor takes a road trip with a friend

Three years passed before Maglor took his vows. It was difficult, day to day, to keep up with the teachings and ways of the monks. Being the only outsider differentiated him from the others. But he found himself needing this lifestyle. He needed stability. He needed to learn to cope with what he'd done, and so he took vows never to repeat his mistakes. Vows, he reminded himself, were not Oaths. He could manage a vow. He could not manage another Oath.

  
Only for a week did he live as a monk in that monastery. Namrata approached him one day with an offer.

"Come with me into the nearby village." She said, her hands crossed in front of her like always. "A few of the people have asked for help from us, in prayer. The head monk asked for us to go."

"Why us?" Maglor asked, but started after her anyway. She had a sanghati draped over her shoulders for warmth, and a small pack by her side. They would be traveling for a day or two.

"You are new." She looked carefully at the bushes before stepping onto the path of dirt. One always had to watch out for snakes and poisonous bugs. "You should be familiar with those who donate to us."

"Donate to us?"

She laughed and glanced back at him. "The clothes on your back, the food in your belly? It is donated to us by the villagers."

"Hm." Maglor said, and thought about it. He hadn't even realized. He must've been taking it all for granted.

The trek was long and tedious, though fairly successful. They only saw one snake and no one was threatened by it. The walking, however, brought back memories of boredom from long hunts with his brothers in his youth.

"Do you sing?" Namrata asked, fortunately. "I heard someone singing months ago, but I did not recognize the voice..."

"I did, once." He kicked a rock to the side and frowned. "I was feeling nostalgic one night and decided to sing a song, long lost by the ages..."

She paused for a moment and hung back to walk beside her fellow monk. "Do you think you would you sing again?"

Maglor thought about this long and hard, and he had been thinking about this long and hard for as far back as he could remember. "Do you want me to? Do you want to hear me sing?"

"I will not say I want it." She looked up at the trees and the darkening sky. "Because that would mean I want, and that would mean I am not content and would insult our Gods." She smiled and turned her head to look at Maglor. His jaw was very accentuated by his shaved head. "But you're voice is lovely, and not like anything I have ever heard."

Maglor smiled and stared at the trees in front of him. The forest was becoming thinner and his powerful eyes could see where they parted into a wider path. After a long moment, he began to sing.

It was an ancient song, of course. He had written it early in his life, relatively, for his sons. Remembering them brought a great pain to his heart, even as regretless as he was at that point. He had loved his sons as if he was their father, not just the man who had taken them in. They loved this song. It was upbeat and flowery and his voice lilted beautifully amongst the trees. Not realizing it, Maglor began to cry as he sung. Not a sob, but a silent cry where tears rolled down his cheeks poetically.

He had finished the song long before he realized he was crying. And by the time Namrata pointed it out, they had begun to set up camp for the night. It would be a short walk in the morning.

"Makalaurë," She breathed, pausing in rolling out her bedroll. "You are crying."

Startled, Maglor touched his face and flushed red when he felt damp cheeks. He wiped his eyes and face and chuckled. "I did not even notice." He patted away dirt from the edge of his own bedroll and laid down on it. "Have you brought food?"

"Bread." She said, and that was the end of mentioning his tears. She split the one roll in half and handed a piece over. They ate in silence. And they meditated shortly before they laid back and slept. Throughout it all, Maglor repeated the mantra be here.

They woke early in the day and did not eat before setting off again. Maglor could see the edge of the forest, where it opened up into a clearing where the village most likely was. There was noise too, above the cries of the birds above them and the elephants in the distance, something only the sensitive ears of Maglor could pick up. It was something he recognized from not too long ago, ten years, maybe, but which seemed to be a lifetime ago. Loud and raucous and vibrating the ground at his feet. He knew what it was when they were twenty meters away from the edge of the jungle, and pulled Namrata to the side.

"Makalaurë!" She gasped, tripping unflatteringly into a tree. He shushed her and crouched, breathing heavy. His ears were perked straight up like a dog's.

"Gunshots." He breathed, and finally, Namrata fell to the ground beside him. "The village is under attack."

Desperately he tried to figure out what to do. Every instinct in his body told him to run, to run back to the temple and forget about the villagers, but that newfound sense of empathy rose within him, and he got to his feet. He had to do something. He had to.

"Stay back. Stay." He hissed, inching out from the trees and grasping a rock. For self-defense, he told himself. Self-defense. Namrata stayed under the bushes, crying out for Maglor in a hushed voice. She inched after him, but not enough to step out onto the path.

It was chaos. The mud and straw houses were in shambles, on fire and ashes from the gunshots. He hid behind a particularly large chunk of rock and peered around for those in danger. Men in green uniforms stalked around the place, aiming and shooting down wailing Nepali villagers. Just a few meters away he saw a little girl, sobbing over the body of what had to be her grandmother.

In a quick movement, Maglor dashed out from behind the rock and crouched next to the girl. "Hello," He said, in Nepali. "Come with me. Quickly." And without much debate the girl followed him, seeing his saffron robes and shaved head and trusting him. He practically crawled back over to the rock. "Into the bushes, okay? I have a friend there. Namrata. Go to her. Go on." He nudged her away with a sympathetic smile. She frowned at him with tears still in her eyes, and Maglor had to look away to give himself enough courage to continue.

He sent two villagers to Namrata, an old man and a young boy who wanted to throttle the men in green uniforms. The young boy had held a rock in his hand too, and Maglor dropped his own when he saw it. What would the villagers think, seeing a monk with a rock in his hand?

It was when he was taking a mother away from her dead son that he was noticed by the men in green uniforms. She was making an awful lot of noise, screaming and wailing in pain and grief and Maglor's heart broke having to take her away. He had to tell himself she would be killed if she stayed. But nonetheless, as he pulled her away from the body the soldiers were alarmed and two of them turned a corner to find him.

"Who the fuck is this?" One of them said, nudging Maglor with his gun. They were German. Maglor put his hands up and ushered the woman behind him. He could understand them, but just barely.

"He wasn't here before." The other said with a laugh. They both had red patches around their arms and an ancient symbol Maglor recognized as something of the Jewish faith. No, he thought, it could've been from early Buddhism.

"Put him in the van." The first one said, and the second whacked the barrel of his gun against Maglor's head. "Both of them! Let's finish up here."

Maglor fell into the mud head first and spluttered. "Wait!" He shouted in German. He spoke it, as he did most languages, but it was very bad. "Wait!"

At hearing him the two soldiers paused. The first one smiled and took off his hat, revealing golden blond hair. They both had blue eyes, but only the first was blond.

"Would you look at that?" He said, grinning like a feral dog. "This one speaks German. Speak up then, pig."

Maglor was breathing very heavily now but stayed in front of the sobbing woman with his hands up. "You- you not want to take her too." He gestured to the woman. She was on her hands and knees. "Take me only. Leave her."

"Why should we do that?" The brunette smiled.

"We are prisoners of war, yes?" Maglor cleared his throat. "I am more valuable. Your leader surely not want little Nepali villagers. A Buddhist monk more valuable. You may get ransom."

The two of them considered this. It was a good offer.

"Where did you learn to negotiate, pig?" The blond said, kicking him over. Maglor fell into the mud again but did not bother wiping it off his face. The brunette laughed. "He's got pointed ears, the little fairy sprite! Look'it that!"

Maglor did not cry, as much as he wanted to. He only sat back up and stared straight ahead numbly as rough fingers caressed his ear. They were extremely sensitive and sent ice cold shivers down his spine. "Please," He begged. "Take me only. Leave woman."

The blond nodded and stepped back. "Fine then. Heinrich, take him to the van."

Maglor clearly hadn't thought this through. He was battered to his feet with their gun, tripping over his limp and hissing in pain. But he did not wish anything different. He merely stood straight and dragged himself to the open-backed van parked on the road leading out of the village. Two soldiers hopped into the front of it, to drive, and Maglor was the last one ushered into the back, falling to the wooden floor and staying down on his hands and knees until the soldiers went away. What had he gotten himself into?


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hahahahah I haven’t uploaded this story in like a billion years oh well
> 
> Maglor goes on an unconsenual road trip and vacations in England. Also a nice little guest appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean this chap is super long maybe it’ll make up for the lateness

This trek was longer and harder than he had thought. Before, when he wandered and traveled, he was alone. He only had to look out for himself. But taking on the responsibilities he had as a monk, he had to look out for not only himself but the others in the van. There were seventeen of them. Seventeen. Two had injuries that needed mending, and he did so by wrapping a stick around the broken arm with a strip of cloth ripped from his clothes, and the other he did so by wrapping a gashed head in another strip of cloth ripped from his clothes. There were seven children, two elderly, the two injured and only five healthy adults, including himself. Three of the five had lost a loved one, and the other two sobbed for the loss of their village.

Maglor had to take responsibility for all of them. He lead them in daily meditation, to cope with the grief, while he rotted away on the inside. He split his food rations into almost fourths, giving away three quarters of his small measly bread to those who needed it more. He should have felt good. He took vows. He promised to be charitable in every instance. But all he felt was fear and hunger and all other animal instincts that took over one's body in a time of crisis.

The truck passed through Nepal, and the Indian Workers Republic, as they called it, and Kashmir and Afghanistan and for a long while through Russia. Maglor felt a pang of nostalgia every time he passed a Russian sign, remembering his few years living in the country.

It was when they stopped in the city of Moscow that things got interesting. After weeks, months, of being starved and shouted at and beaten, one day the Nazi soldiers that paraded them were very kind. They had gotten caught in a country that was, quite suddenly, not an ally. The Germans had betrayed their alliance with the Russians and now the two were at war.

Their truck was stopped at a checkpoint in Russia. The two drivers, one of them being the brunette that had taken Maglor, got out and acted very polite and nice to the Russians that stood there. Maglor leaned out the back of the truck to see what was going on. It didn't take long.

"We are only passing through." The brunette said, shaking one of the Russian's hands. "We have been in your country before the breaking of the alliance."

The two Russian men laughed and fondled their guns. "Does it matter?"

"We only mean to pass through." The other German said. "We mean you no harm."

The Russians shared a glance. In a moment, the two Germans laid dead on the ground the the Russians were rounding the back of the truck. Maglor turned back around and lowered his head.

The Russian men must have expected guns or ammunition or supplies, but upon finding the prisoners they turned serious.

"Out." The taller one demanded. "All of you. Out."

Maglor translated for him and jumped out first, raising his hands in surrender and bowing his head. "We are prisoners." He said in Russian. "Thank you."

The taller one nodded curtly and waited for all seventeen of them to file out. They lined up, backs to the truck, and waited as the Russians examined them.

"You are a monk." The shorter one touched the crusty fabric of Maglor's robes. It had been stained with dried mud and blood and was now a dark orange instead of the bright orange-saffron it used to be. "You speak Russian."

"I lived here for five years." Maglor said, keeping his hands raised. He spoke clearly so they could hear him.

"Where?" The taller one huffed.

"St Petersburg." He answered. The shorter one lowered his arms.

"Where in St Petersburg?"

"Right on the Neva River." He glanced at the shorter one's face and averted his eyes. There was a large burn on his right cheek.

The taller one continued his interrogation. "Where does your allegiance lie in the war?"

Maglor thought about this. "My allegiance lies with the innocent."

A smile rose on the taller one's face until a laugh escaped his lips. "I like this one. Where are you from, monk? How old are you?"

One of the children, a little boy, grabbed his hand in fear. Maglor dropped to his knees, brushed a hand through his hair, and whispered comforts to him.

"Answer me, monk."

"I have no homeland." Maglor placed a kiss to the boy's head and stood. "I am thirty six years old."

"Did you fight in the Great War?" The shorter one said. The Russian's voices were very loud and hurt Maglor's sensitive ears.

"Yes." He said.

"Which side?"

He didn't know which side. "With the Englishmen."

The Russians faced each other and nodded. The taller one called to a third man at the checkpoint. "Take him away. To the English!"

Maglor was dazed. Once again he was being grabbed and taken away. "Wait." His hand was ripped away from the little boy's. "Wait! No, this is a mistake!"

"You said you are an Englishman." The shorter one said. The child cried out and wailed, reaching for Maglor furiously. Maglor shook his head, trying to get back to the ones he had to protect.

"This is a misunderstanding!" He protested. "Where are you going to send them? Will they be safe?"

No one answered him. Yet again he was being swept away without regard and dragged from the ones he needed to keep safe. He was tossed onto yet another truck and drove away, and all he could do was stay still and comply with whatever was going to happen. He repeated the mantra what surrounds you does not affect you, and prepared himself for the pain that life would throw his way.

This time, he didn't have to travel very far. At least, not by truck. They stopped just on the border of Belarus, which was part of Russia, and Maglor was boarded onto a cargo plane for the first time in his life. He was strapped in amongst cans of potatoes and bags of flour, all being sent to London, where he was to stay. Where he would stay wasn't in the question.

He slept on the flight. When no one was looking, he stole a potato from a split bag and ate it. Though afterward, he guessed he shouldn't have done that because his stomach began to churn. After so long of not eating much, his stomach was unused to food.

He thought of Namrata. He wondered how she was doing, if she had gotten the villagers to safety or if she had been caught and killed. He found himself praying to all the gods above to keep her safe. She had always been so kind to him and he wished he could've done the same. He prayed and prayed and did all he could in his willpower to reach out and keep her in a bubble of safety.

He meditated for possibly the whole flight. It was hours and hours and they stopped only once, in Finland or Sweden, to refill gas. Maglor barely noticed. He kept himself in such a deep state of meditation that all he noticed were noises, and then they passed and he was back to floating.

"...Sir. Sir, wake up."

It had been a long time since someone called him sir. He let out a deep breath, for eight seconds, stretched his fingers and toes, and gently opened his eyes. There was a man in front of him. An Englishman. He wore a navy military jacket and navy pants and shiny black wingtip shoes. He held his flat-capped hat in a hand and carried a look a guarded seriousness.

"Sir, I have been informed that you were brought here by the Russians."

Finally, English. Maglor hated and loved English. It came more naturally to him. "And I was brought to Russia by the Nazis and brought from my monastery against my will. I do not know why I am here."

The Englishman look at his shoes and extended a hand to help him up. Maglor got to his feet with much difficulty. "Have you eaten?"

"Eaten when? I have meditated for nearly half a day and starved for months."

The Englishman laughed at his blatant honesty. "I am Captain William Hall, and I have been tasked to bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning? Is it necessary to question anything about me?" He asked. He did not consider this rude. He was only being honest, and honesty was a vow he promised to keep. "My only company for the last day has been potatoes and flour. Everything about me is posted clearly on the outside."

Captain William Hall led him down the ramp out of the plane, which was now empty, and into the dim sunlight of London. He saw that large clock tower in the distance and heard the honking of twentieth-century cars. He had missed London. The countryside reminded him of Arda.

"Are you in need of a cane?" Captain William Hall said, gesturing to a soldier that met them outside. The soldier ran off despite Maglor not answering. So he didn't bother answering since he had not listened, and Hall continued. "You are not Asian. Where are you from?"

"My homeland does not exist," Maglor answered simply.

"What is your name?"

"My legal name, or my birth name?"

Hall glanced at him with a smile. "You have quite the attitude for being a monk."

"Captain," Maglor reached a hand out to stop Captain William Hall and in a split decision decided to be a bit off of how Buddhist monks were supposed to act. He was sure Buddha could give him a pass just this once. He had known him, after all. "I have not eaten a proper meal in three months, and I have not seen the sun for that long. I have been starved, I have been beaten, my people have been killed and I do not know where my monastery is. Why am I here?"

Captain William Hall flinched back and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I- Sir, I do not have an answer for that."

"I thought as much." Maglor nodded and looked at the ground. "Captain, am I truly needed for questioning or may I look for a sanctuary to pray now?"

Hall bit his lip and looked around. The soldier from before returned with a simple oak cane and reached to hand it Maglor. He bowed and extended his hands, the proper position for receiving an offering, and with a pause of confusion, the soldier placed it in his hands.

"I suppose I may let you go." Hall cleared his throat and avoided Maglor's eyes. He leaned onto to cane, reveling in the relief it brought to his bad leg and bowed his head.

"Thank you, sir." He said. He turned to leave, then turned back. "Do you know of a safe place I may pray?"

Hall considered this with narrowed eyebrows for a short moment. "Try the Oxford campus. Students and professors alike are respectful."

Maglor nodded respectfully and turned, limping away on his new cane and a newfound feeling of desperation. He needed to pray. He needed to figure out a plan of action. He was, again, in a foreign human country. For a terrible moment, he wished to see his brothers and his family again.

He found his way to the train station almost subconsciously. He remembered when he lived in London. Interesting city. He enjoyed the pubs. He laughed as he realized he probably should not visit the pubs, as he had vowed not to needlessly become intoxicated.

The trains were bustling. In a moment of genuine confusion, Maglor wondered why he had walked into the station. Then he realized he was to go to Oxford. Then he realized he did not have money to pay for a ticket to Oxford. He was pushed and shoved as he stalked through the crowd, just barely able to slip onto a train unnoticed. It was labeled as Oxford. He hoped that sign was up to date, and that no one would notice him.

It was not hard to miss an orange-robed, thirty-year-old bald elf. He was noticed, and fairly quickly. A man in conductor clothes grabbed his arm and he stiffened considerably.

"Chap, where is your ticket?" The man shouted over the noise. Maglor turned to meet his gaze and tried to look confused.

"I only need to get to Oxford." He begged. "Please."

"No ticket no ride." He began to drag him out of the cabin, and Maglor dropped his cane. "This isn't no charity."

"No, please!" Maglor reached for his cane. Heads turned to stare at the Buddhist monk being forcibly dragged from the train. A young woman in a yellow hat reached out and stopped the conductor.

"What is the problem?" She asked, proper and confused.

"He hadn't got a ticket. I'm only doing my job."

She looked at Maglor, and Maglor stared back stupidly. She looked just like his late wife from thousands of years ago. "No need to harm him, I'll pay for a ticket." She rifled through her hand purse and brought out money, more than enough for a ticket. The conductor took it greedily and pulled a ticket from his pocket, handing it back and dropping Maglor.

"Miss, I cannot ask-" Maglor breathed.

"You did not ask." She sent a beaming smile and offered a hand, helping him to his feet and giving him his cane. "Have a safe trip."

He stared for a moment. She was trying to hand him the ticket. After a few seconds, he blinked, took it with a bowed head, and smiled back at her. "I am eternally grateful." He acknowledged.

She sent another beautiful, shining smile, and glanced down the train station. "I have a train of my own to catch, but... Have a nice day."

She turned to go, but something overcame Maglor and he called, "Wait! Um- I did not catch your name."

She stopped for just a moment. "It's Valarie. What's yours?"

He did not think. "Makalaurë."

She smiled. "Have a safe trip, Makalaurë."

And she was gone in the blink of an eye. Maglor stood there, stunned for a moment. He remembered the train when it let out a loud toot for a final warning. He quickly jumped on and sat in the back, away from prying eyes. He felt a little more hopeful after seeing her. He almost believed she was really his wife. But he knew at least that this was a sign. His time on this Earth was coming to an end. Her name had even been Valarie. What else could this mean? He was not the least bit worried about moving on. His most recent wanderings had been successful, and even his capture by the Nazis did not seem to matter.

It was a sunny day outside London. Clouds sprawled across the sky, swimming like whales in the large blue swimming pool of the sky. He wondered if Varda still looked down upon him from her stars. Or if any of the Valar saw him. He did not mind like he might've once. Though he did not believe in the Buddhist gods, nor any of the religions of this Earth, he did not give any credit to the Valar. They were not Gods. They were just the same as him.

The train ride was pleasant. Though hunger tore through his stomach and his mouth begged for water, he did not ask for sustenance. He sang quietly to himself instead. At least, he thought he sang to himself. Others on the train noticed and tapped their toes along to the pleasant melody. He did not remember the name of the songs he sang. They were old. Maybe from Arda. Maybe he had written them. He didn't care. All he felt like doing was singing.

Before a little girl got off the train, she hopped over to Maglor and reached out with a small hand. Curiously Maglor looked into her cupped hand, finding coins and laughing. So they had heard his singing.

"I greatly appreciate it," He smiled sweetly, "But I cannot accept this."

"Why not?" She pouted.

"I am not allowed to accept offers of luxury or money." He closed her hand around the coins. "It would mean I crave wealth and that I am not content in my life. It would be an insult to my Gods." He sent her away, smiling at her mother behind her. "Buy yourself some sweets. That would be to better use."

Few others tried to offer him money for his singing. He told each one the same thing he had told the girl. That it would say he was not content with his life. And he was content with his life. Even through the good and bad, he was living and he was happy. There were some things worth living for.

He arrived at Oxford just before dinnertime. The campus was emptying out. He thanked the conductor before he left the train, now fairly empty, and walked into the center of campus. It was beautiful. He remembered the building of this University. He had seen the blueprints laid out. Had they added extensions?

He sat on a bench just outside the English and Language Arts building. He enjoyed that place the most. It was so peaceful. Serene as the ponds at the back of his monastery. He sang to himself again and attracted the attention of just one person. One professor. He would change this professor's life from this moment on.

"Hello," The professor said, as a simple greeting as he passed the monk. But his eyes brushed against his pointed ears and his hearing caught his singing and he stopped short. He knew this one. He knew this elf. He had gained much inspiration from him.

"Good evening." Maglor greeted, smiling but raising his eyebrows as the man inched back to stare. He was used to stares, but these eyes knew something. "How may I help you?"

"Sorry, I just-" The man adjusted his tweed jacket and faced Maglor fully. "Is your name- is your name Makalaurë Fëanorion?"

The breath left Maglor's lungs. He had told only two people his first name in the past twenty thousand years, and zero people his last name. And out of the two, one lived in Nepal and the other he had seen two hours ago leaving on a train to Wales.

"Who are you?" Maglor asked cautiously. "Has someone sent you?"

"Sent-? No." The professor shook his head and continued to stare. "I'm sorry, this is all terribly improper and- My name is James Ronald Reul Tolkien, and you knew my great-grandfather."

Tolkien... Tolkien... Maglor searched his memory but shook his head. "Sit. Who are you?"

The professor sat. "I suppose I should explain myself. You knew my great-grandfather, you see. Many, many years ago. He had written descriptions of you, and music you had composed and some tales you had told him." He folded his hands over his lap and placed his briefcase next to him. "I just published one of these tales about three years ago."

That was all he needed. Maglor did remember this man's great-grandfather. They had met in a bar when Maglor was drunk out of his mind. He told some man his name and some stories that did not include him. He didn't realize this man had kept those accounts and passed them down.

"These tales..."

"About hobbits and elves and dwarves and orcs." Tolkien finished. "The one I published was about a hobbit. Bilbo Baggins was his name."

Maglor laughed at this. How wonderful is was to talk to someone about Arda! That name brought so much more happiness to his day. "You do know, then! Oh sir, thank you. Thank you. So long I have wished to discuss these ancient times, and no one would understand! Do you know it all, then? You know who I am?"

He nodded with a smile, also relieved to have someone on the same page as him. None of his family was to know about his great-grandfather's accounts except him. They were to be kept super-secret. "Yes. Yes, I know you're Maglor the Wanderer and that you are the Minstrel of the line of Fëanor. But-" He looked over Maglor, in his dirty orange robes and shaved head. "...You are a Buddhist monk?"

"I have not been for long." He clarified. "Three years ago I somehow ended up at a monastery in the middle of a jungle in Nepal, and I stayed there and trained because I had nowhere else to be. It was..." He remembered the attack in the village and his shoulders drooped. "I ended up here because... Well. I was visiting the nearest village with a fellow monk, Namrata, when we found that they were under attack. I saved four- five of them, I think, before the Nazis caught me. They threw me in a van and I was brought to Russia, but at that time the alliance had broken and the Russian men shot down our captors and conversed with me, finding out that I had fought with the Englishmen in the Great War. They sent me here because of that, and I was to be interrogated by the British military but I managed to sneak away since really what would they get out of me? I am a Buddhist monk anyhow, and I made a vow to not harm a single living thing. What would I be doing coming here as a spy for Russia?"

Tolkien was chuckling. "That is quite a story." He paused and sat back against the bench. It was still perfectly peaceful out, and the two of them sat in silence for a minute.

"Would you like to stay with me?" The professor said after a bit. "You seem to have no home for the time being, and it would be no trouble."

"I could not ask you to do that," Maglor said immediately. "Everyone I met has been so kind to me, I could not possibly put you to so much trouble. The bench and open sky are good enough for me."

"I could not just leave you out here." Tolkien stood and offered a hand. "I was actually just retrieving my last things from my office before leaving for the summer. It does not seem like you have eaten, either. I have food and shelter for you."

"...It would truly be no trouble?" Maglor stood with a groan, leaning on his cane. He was unsure if the walking stick was a luxury item, but decided he needed it. "I would only need the bare necessities. Food. Water. A bedroll or blanket to sleep. I do not want nor do I need any more than that."


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of this story actually written out, but somehow I can never find the time to update it. 
> 
> Maglor’s stay at our guest appearance’s home, his inner thoughts and dilemma. He tells his story and leaves.

And so the two travelled home together. Tolkien led him to his home in north Oxford, asking him about his faith in Buddhism a bit bitterly. He was devout catholic and did not like the prospect of one he revered being a different religion entirely.

"I do not believe in the gods." Maglor admitted. "There is no god. The Valar try to make us think they are... but they are no different than you or I."

Tolkien did not like that answer but they continued on. When they arrived at home, his twelve-year-old was already in bed and his wife sat upright on a chair by the kitchen, reading. Maglor realized he should hang back, allow Tolkien to explain who their guest was. Maglor heard their whispers from the entrance of the house and walked into the kitchen only when Tolkien asked him to.

"Good evening." He greeted and bowed his head. "I am eternally grateful for your hospitality."

With a long sigh the wife complied. "You're welcome. My name is Edith. Our couch is available and if need be we have extra sets of clothes."

"No need." Maglor smiled. He saw the couch behind the two of them, in the living room. "I should wash my own clothes. Thank you for offering."

"Sure." Edith stood and brought her teacup with her. "I'm going to bed. Ronald, you can set him up...?"

"Of course." He placed a kiss to his wife's head. "Go sleep. I'll be up in a bit."

After Edith was gone, Tolkien went to work laying blankets down on the couch and pouring a mug of hot green tea. Maglor was reminded of Namrata giving him tea the first time he showed up at the monastery. It felt like a week ago.

"Excuse me," Maglor paused before sitting down on the couch and leaning his cane against the armrest. "Is there a place I can- I can pray? Meditate?"

Tolkien didn't like the prospect of this, and rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Um, I suppose the garden out back would work."

"Thank you. I am grateful." Maglor patted the pillow he'd been allowed to borrow. "Sir, I do mean to repay you."

"Oh?" He placed his hands on his hip. He looked like Maglor's father when he did that, and he almost laughed.

"Yes. I will tell you the whole history of Arda. If I can remember it, that is. Then... then I think I am to return to Aman."

"Return to Aman?"

"Valinor." Maglor clarified. "The Undying Lands. My family is there, and I have seen signs that I am to return soon." He rubbed his slowly regrowing hair and scowled inwardly. "I can sing for you, too. My music heals."

Tolkien stepped back and shut off the light. "I look forward to it. I... will see you in the morning, Maglor."

"Good night."

Maglor was left in silence, but he was content. It was dark out. Very dark. For the first time in many years, as he sat back and closed his eyes he thought of his family. He wondered if his mother still painted and sculpted and whether she grieved for the wrongdoings of her family. He wondered if Tyelko had been reborn and if Ambarussa had been reborn and if they still hunted in the forests of Valinor. If Curvo and Moryo had been reborn. If they continued their crafts. If dear Tyelpe had been given a second chance.

Most of all he wondered if his older brother was healed. The last time he had seen him, his beautiful auburn hair was cut short and almost entirely grey, and his skin was a sickly white and his voice did not sound like a living voice. He screamed as he fell into that pit of fire and his scream broke into nothing but an unearthly screech. He was dead before he hit the magma.

Maglor trembled in his sleep. He dreamt of eagles and red foxes and glowing fire lighting up the faces of his loved ones. He saw his mother. He saw Ambarussa and Curvo and Moryo, and Tyelko and Maitimo. His father was there. Behind them all he saw his wife. She looked so different Maglor barely recognized her. Her brown hair was braided into a bun, those familiar two curls brushing against her high and sharp cheekbones. Her pointed ears stood straight up against her head, listening to the crackling of the fire. What was burning? What was burning?

Maglor stepped closer. There was something in that fire. A large wooden column had collapsed in the fire, split in two and crumbling to ashes. He got yet closer. There was a face in that fire. A screaming face.

It was him. It was his own face that screamed, his own skin melting and his own hands tied around a creaking column. Maglor dropped to his knees and looked to his family standing above him. They all looked like they were trying to help him. But there was nothing they could do. Some powerful force kept them back, allowing a view of the burning body but not allowing movement towards him. They all shouted for him. All but Maitimo. His lips were shut tight.

Maglor woke with a start.

  
He did not know how long it was that he slept. But it was light out, and Edith cooked something sizzling in the kitchen. It smelt of meat. Hunger overcame the paralyzingly fear and Maglor got to his feet, grasping his cane and limping into the next room.

"Good morning," Maglor greeted, sitting himself at the table. Edith cooked bacon and did not glance back. "How long did I sleep?"

"All through the first night, the first day, and a second night." She turned abruptly and placed a plate of bacon in front of Maglor, who sat up, startled. "Do you eat meat?"

He didn't prefer it. Nor did he like it. "I eat whatever is offered to me. Thank you." He frowned down at the bacon and lowered his head, placing his hands together in front of him and uttering Sanskrit. "My dear Buddha, forgive me for the improper eating habits. I hunger and I pray for your forgiveness. Thank you." And he took a deep breath and ate.

"What was that?" Edith breathed. The stairs creaked behind them.

"Sanskrit." Maglor said between chewing. "I pray to my Gods for forgiveness."

"Forgiveness for what? What have you done wrong?"

He looked over the plate of food in front of him. "I do not wish to worry you. Times have been hard. I am sure I will be forgiven."

But Edith was curious. She sat in the chair across from him and clasped her hands in front of her. "No no, I'd like to know for the future."

He chuckled and continued eating. He was truly starving. "I am not really supposed to eat meat. And I am supposed to be offered food directly into my hands or a cloth in contact with my hands."

Edith was reaching to pour tea for him. "Oh. Quite the rules." And she poured two cups and reached for a bit of milk, offering it with raised eyebrows.

"I am not allowed to ask for food." He smiled, amused by her behavior. "Nor can I drink milk after noon."

"Hm." Edith looked to the clock on the wall. "It is eleven. Would you like milk in your tea, then?"

He nodded. "Please."

She poured the tea as a girl tumbled down the stairs. She wore a long white summer dress and had her hair tied back in a braid. "Ma," She called, stopping short at seeing Maglor.

"Dear, this is Maglor." Edith introduced. "He is staying with us for the time being. Maglor, this is Priscilla Mary Anne. Our youngest."

"A pleasure." Maglor bowed his head with a smile.

Priscilla was staring at his face. "You have pointy ears."

He chuckled and lowered his voice. "I do. You want to know something interesting?" He sent a smile as the girl jumped into a chair next to him.

"What?" She grabbed a piece of bacon from her mother's plate.

"I'm an elf. Like out of your father's stories." He whispered. Edith choked and turned her head away to giggle. Priscilla roared with laughter.

"Really?" She gaped.

"Yes, really."

At that time Tolkien appeared behind them. He didn't have to even announce his entrance, saying, "So he wakes."

Maglor jumped in fright and smiled at his host. "Yes, thank you for the food and drink and the place to sleep."

He nodded and sat next to his wife. They ate in friendly conversation, though Maglor did not say much. There was not much to say. Besides, after noon he was not allowed to eat and he sat back.

That morning he meditated in the gardens out back, like he'd been told to do the night before. Then he met with Tolkien and for hours, the whole day, they discussed and recorded the very beginnings of his world. Tolkien seemed to enjoy proving Illuvitar's existence and wrote that piece down with vigor.

Maglor felt a feeling of urgence. He did not want to stay in that house long. He enjoyed the company and the support, but he knew he needed to get away. He saw hawks practically every day, and dreamt the same burning dream every night.

He stayed for two weeks, recording his history every day, before something curious happened. He was sitting on the bench in the garden, admiring the flowers and the trees and laughing to himself at the young Priscilla dancing in her bedroom window, when a hawk landed on the armrest a half a meter away from him. It was massive and brown and it's eyes were not of an animal.

"Eonwë," He greeted, already knowing who this was. He met the bird's eyes, and it spoke in his head.

"You are to return to us on the thirtieth of September, in Germany."

Maglor huffed and adjusted his robes. His head had been shaved recently. "Germany? You do know of the war?"

The hawk- eagle, Maglor realized, shifted on it's muscly talons. "Yes. You will be caught, and you will be killed. Go to Germany and the rest will be easy."

"Easy?" He cackled. "You tell me I am to be killed, and that it will be easy? I'm sorry, Eonwë, but you have become mad."

Maglor went to stand, but the eagle flapped and hooked onto the front of his now fading saffron robes. "You will do as I say. You want to return, Makalaurë, and you will. Your family calls for your return."

Maglor brushed the bird off his chest and went to walk inside. "I will return, I have been planning on it for a while now. Leave me alone."

The next weeks were difficult. Maglor's restlessness grew into a great anxiety, and as much as he prayed and meditated it did nothing. He constantly had a sinking feeling in his stomach. And he often forgot to thank his hosts for his meals and comfort. They had been so kind to them.

"I want you to do something." Maglor said one day, during the usual outline with Tolkien. "A suggestion- no, a demand."

"Are you sure you're a monk?" He laughed, but complied and sat back. "What is it?"

"I want you to write that I either die or wander the shores forevermore." He said, quickly and worriedly. "I cannot be known to be in this world. I wander the shores. Yes, that sounds good."

Tolkien wrote it down. "Sure. Any reason?"

"I just... I do not want people looking for me."

"Fair enough."

And it was written in. The history was just about complete, but it got harder to recite every day. The pain in Maglor's heart was returning, and he hated it. He planned to leave on the twentieth of August. Plenty of time to get to Germany, yes?

The night before he left he, for the first time, ate a full dinner with the family. They knew he was to leave.

"But why?" Tolkien insisted.

"I am to return." He forced himself to stop tapping his foot. "My soul drags itself back to my family. I miss them and I have healed."

"But you like it here," Edith pointed out, taking another bite of potato. As the war progressed, food became less. It was potatoes that night. Simple baked potatoes.

Maglor laughed, and a thought came to mind. "Did I ever tell you where I got this limp?" He blurted. The three of them shook their heads.

"The Great War?" Tolkien guessed.

"I broke it myself." He nearly hissed, but not an attack on them. A spite on himself. "I killed a man I had met in a bar ten years earlier and I could not bare to continue fighting. I smashed my femur against the broken bit of someone's bayonet and left service."

Edith covered Priscilla's ears. "Excuse me?"

"That hatred is rising in me again." He continued. "I have quelled it for years from my studies in Nepal. But my restlessness grows, and I want to go home."

Tolkien looked like he was to argue, but all he could manage was, "You have not finished explaining your history."

"I have explained everything I needed to explain." He insisted. "You may use that think tank of your own to write the rest. Remember my ending, okay?" And Tolkien nodded. "Thank you. Thank all of you, for everything you have done to aid me."

That night he packed a small satchel of bread, potato, and an extra died cloth that Edith had prepared for him. Tolkien tried to gift him a small lap harp for his journey, but he refused it upon knowing he was to burn. However, he did succumb to singing for them for the first time, and he sung a song of repentance he had written upon his first nights in London, nearly a hundred years ago. Once the family was asleep, he left the harp and started down the streets of Oxford and towards the roads to Germany.


End file.
